


Of Meals and Memories

by ladyoflalaland



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Background Relationships, Cooking, Crushes, Developing Relationship, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Happy Ending, M/M, Magical Realism, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29242227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoflalaland/pseuds/ladyoflalaland
Summary: Ashe’s cooking has always made people smile. Lately, it seems to make them laugh, cry, and fall in love as well.  But, what is the use of helping friends fall in love if Dedue, the one person Ashe wants to see smile, seems unaffected by anything Ashe cooks?The Blue Lions Route, with a dash of magic and notes of romance.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 10
Kudos: 37
Collections: Ashe Big Bang





	Of Meals and Memories

**Author's Note:**

> This work was written as part of the Ashe Big Bang and has a lovely piece of art by the amazing [@ hausofthestars](https://twitter.com/hausofthestars). Give them a follow for some gorgeous pieces. The art for this fic is [linked here](https://twitter.com/hausofthestars/status/1358101144325783554?s=20)
> 
> Featuring background Annette/Lysithea, minor Sylvain/Mercedes, and implied non-binary!Byleth/Dimitri.
> 
> CW for canon-typical depictions of grief, war, and loss of parents. This work follows Azure Moon canon, with a magical twist. Hopefully you love food-based magical realism romances (what a specific genre!) as much as I do, but no knowledge of this genre is required to read the fic. 
> 
> Thanks to [blackberrychai ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackberrychai/pseuds/blackberrychai) for betaing!

All of Ashe’s earliest memories are tinted by the sweet, savory, salty taste of food. He is three, grabbing at his mother’s skirts until she hands him down a slice of still hot honey cake. He is five, carefully stirring a stew pot with both hands, looking over at his father, hoping he sees the big boy Ashe is trying his best to embody. He is eight, mouth set in a determined line as he uses the last of the carrots to make his parents broth as they cough. 

He is nine, splitting apart a stolen loaf of bread, careful not to let a single crumb drop. Half goes to his sister, half to his brother. 

It seems strange, after all those years of hunger, to be cooking in the kitchens at Garreg Mach Monastery. Did Christophe ever cook here? Ashe shakes his head, trying to clear it of the painful memories associated with food. Ashe wills a good memory to take its place: the first time he baked a cake for his younger siblings; his first meal at Lonato’s house, a meat pie so hot it burnt his mouth. Cooking at Garreg Mach is a dream come true for Ashe. In a few hours, his first time in these kitchens will be nothing but a happy memory as well.

It makes Ashe smile to see that, when he serves the date and currant sweetened cake he made to Mercedes and Annette, his two new classmates smile as well. 

“This is so good, Ashe!” Annette says, voice chipper. Annette seems to be a positive, kind, and hard-working person. Ashe likes her already.

Mercedes lets out a sigh. “Oh, Ashe, you truly have a gift.” Despite having been at the monastery only a week, Ashe has already tried Mercedes’ cookies, chocolates, and her own take on the classic Sweet Bun Trio. Each of Mercedes’ dishes was better than the last and Ashe doubts that, compared to her, he is gifted at cooking. Hearing Mercedes praise him feels good all the same. 

“Thank you both so much.” Ashe beams. He was worried that the other students at Garreg Mach would all be close childhood friends. While Annette and Mercedes are tied to the crown of Faerghus in their own way, just as Ashe is, he is happy to have found friends who were raised in more modest homes. 

There is only one other student in his house who was not born into nobility. Ashe is not sure what to make of Dedue. Dedue is large. Dedue is silent. But, Ashe has seen the way Dedue handles the plants in the greenhouse. Dedue is not a bad man. 

After the dishes are tidied up and Mercedes and Annette retire for the evening, Ashe heads to his room. The new academic term begins in the spring at Garreg Mach, and the days are getting longer. Ashe can see a sliver of light still in the western sky. He pauses at his door to watch the sunset, holding the remainder of the carefully wrapped cake in one hand. 

Back at Castle Gaspard, everyone is probably getting ready for bed. Lonato is most likely sitting by the fire, reading a book, enjoying a glass of dessert wine. Maybe Lonato is reading a story to Ashe’s siblings as they eat the peach sorbet Lonato yielded to giving them, even after telling them no more sweets. Ashe sighs; he is happy at Garreg Mach, but when he thinks of those quiet nights sitting near the hearth, his brother falling asleep on his lap as Lonato reads tales of chivalrous knights, kind princes, and clever princesses, he misses home.

The door next to him opens. Ashe starts from his reverie and the cake platter begins to slip from his grasp. Ashe feels a pit in his stomach, knowing soon the cake will be flat on the ground. But before the scene in his mind actually plays out, the pan is stabilized by a pair of large hands.

“Thanks, Dedue!” Ashe looks up, trying to meet his classmate’s eyes. Dedue turns his gaze downward.

“My apologies. I startled you.” Dedue’s voice is flat. He refuses to look at Ashe.

Ashe is unsure what Dedue’s behavior means. One second he is helping Ashe, the next, acting as if he wishes to flee the scene. Ashe tries to keep his tone positive, to show Dedue there is no need to worry. “Nothing to apologize for!” 

Ashe repositions his hands on the cake pan. “I’ve got it now. Thanks for your help!”

Dedue nods and turns to leave, face still unreadable. 

“W-wait!” Ashe speaks up. It seems rude not to offer Dedue some cake. Besides, his cake made Mercedes and Annette smile. His cakes always make people smile. Dedue looks like he could use something to smile about. Ashe unwraps the paper around the cake with one hand, holding the platter out to Dedue. “Please, try some.” 

For a moment, Dedue continues to open his door. Then, slowly, he turns and regards the cake. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t do much of anything, really. Just looks from the cake to Ashe.

Ashe is suddenly struck by a barrage of worries. “P-please, don’t feel obligated to take any! And, if you have any allergies, let me know. Um, I’m sorry. I should have asked that—”

Dedue looks alarmed by Ashe’s outburst and reaches out to grab the proffered slice. “It is fine.” He holds the cake to his mouth and, finally, takes a bite. Ashe’s face falls when he sees Dedue’s expression stay the same.

“Thank you. It is good,” Dedue says. No smile graces his lips, no sparkle lights his eyes. 

Dedue helps Ashe with his door and bids him goodnight. It is the first time Ashe’s baking has failed to make someone smile.

* * *

Ashe does not cry after Lonato’s death. He does not cry when he leaves the battlefield with Catherine and the professor, nor when Annette tells him she is sorry or Mercedes pulls him into a hug. Tears fail to fall as Dimitri places a warm hand on his shoulder. Even in the cathedral, with its high walls and stained glass, remembering all the times he went to church with his father, Ashe does not cry.

Which is why it seems strange when, bent over a pot of fish and bean soup, the professor deboning a fish they caught at his side, Ashe begins to sob. The professor places a firm hand on his back.

“I’m okay,” Ashe says, through the tears. The professor’s expression indicates that they firmly believe Ashe is not okay. 

After a few hiccupy breaths with the professor’s hand running circles on his back, Ashe’s tears subside. He excuses himself to step outside, where he takes in deep breaths of the fresh, spring air. Notes of summer and the watery, slightly pungent smell of the fish pond are on the breeze. The strange combination of smells and the sight of his classmates as they fish, train, and flirt in the evening light bring Ashe back to his senses. He wipes his eyes once more and makes his way back into the kitchen. As he enters, he sees the strangest sight: his usually stoic professor wiping their eyes, as if having shed tears. 

Byleth straightens when Ashe enters and motions to the pot. Next to the pot is a dirty spoon. The professor tasted Ashe’s soup.

“Do the spices seem well-balanced, Professor?” Ashe asks, voice still a little wobbly from the tears. Byleth nods and smiles at him, handing him a clean spoon so he can taste the soup himself.

Ashe leans over the pot. He must have been outside longer than he thought, because the fish is flaking beautifully and the broth is simmering. Ashe dips his spoon in, bringing the soup up to his mouth. 

The wave of sadness is so overwhelming, Ashe has to step backward, nearly falling into Byleth. 

“S-sorry, Professor.” Ashe feels tears prickle in his eyes once more. “It tastes fine. We should serve it. I’m sure everyone’s waiting.” They were serving the soup to the other Blue Lions for dinner. 

For a moment, an odd expression comes over Byleth’s face, but they quickly school their visage into their usual blank expression. Byleth brings the pot over, placing it on one of Mercedes’ knitted pot holders and Ashe grabs bowls. 

Not everyone joined for dinner. Mercedes and Annette sit at the long table. Lysithea, who has been spending more time with the Blue Lions after joining them on their last few battles, is next to Annette. Lysithea looks disappointed when the food Ashe brings over is not sweet. Sylvain is talking to Ingrid, who sits upright, clearly unnerved by whatever Sylvain is telling her. Across from Ingrid is Dimitri and, on the other side of Dimitri, Dedue.

They serve. Everyone smiles, thanking Ashe and the professor, before digging in. Ashe watches, too nervous to eat, as one by one those smiles fade. Nervously, Ashe tries the food himself. Perhaps he and the professor were mistaken: perhaps it is inedible—

And then Annette sniffs and Ashe realizes tears are running down her cheeks.

“Oh, Annette.” Mercedes pulls her into a hug. Even Lysithea, who Ashe is fairly sure at best views Annette as some kind of rival, runs a hand across Annette’s back. Both women also look choked up.

“I’m sorry,” Annette wipes her face, “Ashe, I’m so sorry about your dad—”

“It’s fine.” Ashe tries to sound soothing as he surveys the faces of the rest of his friends. Sylvain’s usefully playful façade is replaced by a wistful expression. Ingrid stares straight ahead, but Ashe can see the way her lip trembles. Dimitri’s eyes are full of sorrow. 

“Yes, Ashe, it is us who should be cooking something for you.” The prince sounds as if he is deep in thought. 

Ashe meets Byleth’s eyes. The professor is also surveying the group with their quick gaze. They are frowning, but say nothing.

Dinner proceeds without interruption, although the mood is somber. As they clear away the dishes after the meal, Annette pulls Ashe aside.

“Your soup was so yummy, Ashe. I’m sorry again for interrupting dinner.” Annette lacks the usual spring in her step.

“It’s okay, as long as you’re fine.” If anything, Ashe is touched by Annette’s sympathy, although he does not want anyone else to be dragged into the conflict between Lonato and the church. 

Annette’s face brightens. “Oh yeah! I feel great now — full belly! I’m ready to do more studying before bed. Thanks again for dinner, Ashe.” Annette does seem happier, now, swinging her arms as she walks toward her dorm room. 

Ashe wants to write off everyone’s sadness at dinner as the kindness of his new friends and their sympathy for his loss. But, he can’t shake the way the professor was staring at everyone. How his sadness seemed to have been felt by all of his dinner guests, not just by himself. 

Ashe remembers the way, when chewing the bread his father baked — soft, warm, with bits of rosemary and crackles of black pepper — he felt a warmth in his stomach that came from more than just the bread. 

“This bread,” his father said, giving Ashe a kiss on his forehead, “was baked with all my love for you.”

Bread, of course, could not contain love, just as soup could not make someone sad. Still, Ashe feels a little nervous; he ought to be more careful in the future.

* * *

Dedue is the first person Ashe tells of his suspicion.

“Do you think food can impact the way we feel?” They are grilling fish, using the fish’s fat to make a sort of confit. As Ashe has just learned, Dedue has no cooking training; unlike Ashe, whose father explained the difference between a confit, meat cooked slowly over lower temperatures, and a fry, with its bubbling oil that young Ashe was not supposed to touch. Dedue just knows these things, from years of cooking with his family.

Ashe is still unsure of what Dedue thinks of him, but they have been cooking together more and more lately.

Dedue does not pause his work, running a skewer through the fish to check if the meat is done. “I do not think that is possible.”

Ashe nods. Not wanting to press the point, he turns his attention to the fish. “That smells so good. Can we eat it now?”

Although the skewer slides easily through the tender and flaky skin of the fish, Dedue shakes his head and arranges greens from the garden, washed and patted dry, on the plate next to the fish. He hands Ashe the first serving and Ashe marvels at the way the plate looks so very pretty.

The fish is heavenly in his mouth; hot, garnished with nothing more than salt and the fresh greens on the side. Ashe glances over at Dedue, sees the way he is watching him eat, and feels a warmth in his belly that is not entirely from the fish.

“This is delicious, Dedue!” Ashe says between mouthfuls. Dedue says nothing. He has stopped watching Ashe and is staring at his own plate now, eating slowly. All the same, Ashe can see the way Dedue’s eyes sparkle at his compliment, even if his face remains expressionless. If this is what Dedue can do with fish, Ashe can hardly imagine what sort of marvels Dedue can create with spices and vegetables, flour and eggs. 

“We should”— Ashe pauses his thought to take another bite — “cook together more.” Dedue nods and Ashe continues. “Maybe next time you can teach me to make something from Duscur.”

The sparkle leaves Dedue’s eyes.

“It is best if we do not cook the food of Duscur. People hate Duscur. Food by itself may be harmless, but it is better not to sow seeds of discontent.”

Ashe shakes his head. “You will not sow any discontent sharing food with me, Dedue. You have to trust me on that.”

It is the first time Ashe sees a smile grace Dedue’s lips. If there is magic in anything, Ashe thinks, it is words.

* * *

As the weeks pass, Ashe feels his mood gradually lighten. Lonato’s death is hard to forget, but it is easy to get lost in the day to day activities of the monastery. It is easy to laugh with friends, to study half the night and wake, head pressed firmly in a book, and realize it has been nearly a day since he last felt sad. This, Ashe thinks, is what Lonato would have wanted, although he still has the prickling feeling in the back of his mind that there’s more to the story of Lonato, of Christophe, than Catherine let on. Ashe lets it go, lost in the thrill of firing his bow on the battlefield, the busy feeling of life that surrounds him in Garreg Mach, the food.

There is the Battle of the Eagle and the Lion. The Blue Lions win, narrowly snatching victory from the Golden Deer. The feast to follow is unlike any Ashe has seen. He piles his plate high (although not nearly as high as Ingrid) with pheasant roast drizzled with berry sauce, pasta salad with cherry tomatoes blistered nearly black, and slices of bread still fresh from the oven. When he takes his seat, Mercedes hands him some sweet buns under the table: the dessert table has not opened yet, but Mercedes always has a treat or two up her sleeve — in this case, possibly literally. 

Ashe is surprised when Dedue chooses a seat next to him. Ashe cannot imagine Dedue not sitting next to Dimitri, but perhaps he has chosen this seat because it is as close as he can get to the prince given the fact that Dimitri is a rather popular person to talk to at the moment, having just come off the battlefield the leader of the victorious house. 

Although they barely speak through the meal, when Ashe misses out on the last fish sandwich, cut into delicate triangles, Dedue offers him some of his own. In the glitter and light of the festivities, everyone’s head spinning from the sugar and the crowd and the adrenaline that comes with retelling a favorite moment in the battle, Ashe does not find the intimacy odd when Dedue brings the sandwich to Ashe’s mouth himself. Ashe takes a small bite, not wanting to steal too much of the other student’s food and his stomach feels warm: from the combination of soft white bread and crispy, fried fish or from the heat of the room, packed with too many students, Ashe thinks. Not from the way Dedue looks at him as he feeds him, eyes soft, expression, for once, joyous. 

Then there is the students’ ball. Ashe practices with Annette for hours, trying to get down a simple step. Still Ashe is nervous when he arrives at the actual dance floor: it is one thing to dance with Annette in a quiet part of the monastery, both giggling and feeling shy, Annette’s relentless positivity making Ashe feel like a dancing protégé and not a clumsy, small boy who blushes and apologizes whenever he makes a misstep. 

No amount of practice could prepare Ashe for how daunting it feels to watch his classmates twirl around him in an endless array of colors and to decide whether he should ask Ingrid to dance, or stick with Annette, who has been his partner for a few rounds now. 

And to fight back the feeling that, really, it might be fun to dance with another boy instead.

The safest place to be at the ball is by the food. He likes sitting near the long table holding platters piled high with treats. Ashe tries to keep his manners while also devouring chocolate covered strawberries and slices from ripe wheels of cheddar. The best part of the ball is when he and Ignatz, who seems even more reluctant than Ashe to ask someone to dance, have a rather long laughing fit when Raphael takes off with two steaks to the Goddess Tower. 

The party is now winding down: Dimitri and the professor have left, gone off to talk about the battle, perhaps. Sylvain is on the arm of a pretty student Ashe knows only in passing. It seems Annette has gotten enough sugar into Lysithea to get the normally reserved girl to dance with her, in a manner that is far less like dancing and far more like jumping up and down. Ignatz bids Ashe goodnight. Ashe grabs one more strawberry, now a little warm, but still delicious, and is just turning to leave as well, when he senses rather than hears a presence behind him. 

“Dedue!” Ashe turns, regarding Dedue with some surprise: Ashe hadn’t seen Dedue for most of the party and assumed Dedue left when Dimitri did.

“Forgive me, did I startle you?” Despite the late hour, despite the excitement of the ball, Dedue’s voice is as level as ever. 

“Not at all!” Ashe is sleepy, but now also feels excited. “Did you enjoy the party?”

Dedue nods. “I left... In Duscur, the new year is usually rung in with a specific treat. I wanted to make it. I do not like this particular sweet, but thought you would.”

Without another word, Dedue holds out a bun wrapped in paper. Ashe accepts it and examines the soft, white steamed dough. 

“What’s inside?” Ashe asks, hoping he conveys curiosity and not skepticism at the foreign food. 

“Sweetened red beans,” Dedue replies, voice almost thoughtful.

Ashe takes a bite, interested to try something new. The sweetness is delicate, not overwhelming. The dough is soft, melting in his mouth. If this food is traditionally served on new year’s eve in Duscur, then Ashe plans to spend every new year possible in that northern peninsula.

“The ingredients must be difficult to get here.”

Dedue shrugs.

Ashe is struck with the realization that Dedue, as he said, does not like this sweet.

“Did you make this… for me?” As soon as he asks the question, Ashe regrets it: he does not want to hear the answer.

“For all of our classmates, although I will not tell all of them it is of Duscur origin.”

Of course… of course. Dedue could hardly make an entire dessert just for Ashe.

But, Ashe was the one he wanted to share it with first.

Despite his full belly, as Ashe walks back to his room, parting from Dedue at their doors, he feels light and, in the morning, the smile remains on his face. 

* * *

No one else, Dedue insists, should know he and Ashe are cooking Duscur cuisine. Ashe understands his sentiment. Ashe understands how it feels to be an outsider, even if Ashe has never quite been an outsider the way Dedue is. But it does feel selfish not to share the food Dedue creates with everyone, especially now, when the mood in the monastery is somber with the passing of Jeralt. The other students are clearly affected: Edelgard is cagey, keeping to herself more and more and Dimitri has dark bags under his eyes. 

Ashe and Dedue stand side by side in the kitchen. Given the state Dimitri is in, Ashe is surprised Dedue has time to cook with him. Given the state Ashe is in when he remembers the professor’s face after… — Dedue passes him parsnips to cut, seemingly oblivious to the tremor in Ashe’s hand — Ashe knows the expression well. Had seen it on himself, in the mirror, after Lonato... — Dedue is so much better at dicing vegetables than Ashe. Ashe thinks he can handle a knife well, but Dedue moves faster, makes the pieces more even — will the professor be able to look at knives the same way since… 

And then, to Ashe’s surprise, Dedue puts down his knife.

“Ashe, face me.”

Ashe obliges without questioning the command, sitting the knife down and dropping his hands to his sides. Dedue places both of his hands on Ashe’s shoulders. Their warm weight is a balm to Ashe’s troubled soul.

“Take a breath.” Ashe nods, but finds it is hard to force air into his lungs. It is only when Dedue himself takes a breath, Ashe mirroring him instinctively as they face each other, that Ashe feels the tension ease. 

Ashe offers Dedue a weak smile. “Thanks.” But Dedue does not drop his hands from Ashe’s shoulders. As the seconds tick by, Ashe becomes more conscious of the gentleness of Dedue’s touch, the pleasure the soft squeeze of his hands provides. Ashe thinks to step back, thinks to keep dicing parsnips until their stew is done, but he is transfixed by Dedue’s touch.

It is Dedue who breaks the silence, stepping away from Ashe, dropping his hands from Ashe’s body as he speaks. “You are brave.” And then, so, so tenderly, he places his hands against Ashe’s and brings them back to the counter. 

Ashe does feel brave because Dedue — smart, strong, courageous Dedue — says he is. Setting his mouth in a determined line, Ashe begins to chop once more. The very solid crunch of the parsnip in his hands and the warm presence of Dedue at his side ground him. 

Ashe would be a knight. He would avenge Jeralt. He would avenge Lonato! He imagines himself returning home to Castle Gaspard, younger siblings watching in awe as he rides in a hero. He is slowly becoming qualified to be a knight in Dimitri’s service and soon his imagined scene would be his reality. The intrusive yet not entirely unwelcome thought comes to Ashe mind that serving Dimitri means serving with Dedue. Means fighting with him, maybe forever. Maybe they could cook together forever too, in Fhirdiad.

Ashe lets the fantasy of being a knight play out as he continues cooking. He adjusts the wood under the grill slats, getting the heat even for grilling Duscur bear steaks, and imagines facing down one of the hot-breathed dragons his favorite books detail as the hot air from the fire hits his face. The sprig of rosemary in his hand to be nestled among the logs becomes a flower to give to an admirer —a beautiful young lady or a kind-faced young man — before Ashe heads to the battlefield. 

Their classmates devour the meal. Ashe is pretty sure Ingrid somehow coerced Sylvain into giving her half of his steak and makes a mental note to prepare a little more for Ingrid in the future. Even Felix joins for the meal; Dimitri is noticeably missing. The lack of Dimitri looms heavily over the group when they first sit down, but the prince is all but forgotten by the half-way point in the meal. 

Instead, everyone is sharing battle victories, trying to one-up each other, or, in the case of the almost-too-enthusiastic Annette, acting out favorite heroic moments. 

“And that’s when, boom!” Annette waves her hands in a mimicry of casting cutting gale at a monster. “It exploded!”

Lysithea shakes her head. “Hardly. I am pretty sure I finished that beast off.”

The usually reticent Felix scoffs at Lysithea’s reply. “I had my sword in that creature’s back long before you two arrived.”

“I think you all should get credit for the victory,” Mercedes, ever the peacemaker, says airily. 

“Well, none of you would have made it out alive if it weren’t for Mercedes’ healing.” Sylvain gives Mercedes a wink. Ingrid elbows him, but Mercedes giggles.

“Flattery will get you nowhere. I can’t take praise when I was only helping my friends.” 

The conversations dissolve into continued one-upmanship, peppered, much to Ashe’s delight, with compliments between students occurring more frequently than boasts. Through it all, the professor is smiling. Ashe smiles too. 

On the battlefield that week, Ashe sees lances find cracks in armor more often, magic hit true, and arrows hit their mark. Dimitri is the only one missing more. After the battle, despite Dimitri’s gloom, everyone else is boisterous. 

“This week has been _so_ good for me,” Sylvain says as they head back to camp. “I scored on and off the battlefield, if you know what I mean.” He elbows Ashe in the side. Ashe has a guess as to what Sylvain means and blushes at the implication. Sylvain continues, oblivious to Ashe’s embarrassment. “I need some more of that bear meat you and Dedue made. That really made me feel like I could tackle anything.”

Ashe freezes. Sylvain chuckles and continues. “I’m serious, that meal made me feel, I don’t know, luckier somehow? Braver?” Sylvain studies Ashe’s face. “You okay?”

“Yes… Yes. Sorry.” Ashe shakes his head. “It’s just that, I keep feeling like the food I cook, I don’t know, impacts those who eat it somehow?” Ashe looks at the ground, “I know it sounds silly.”

“Not at all!” Sylvain sounds genuine, so Ashe lifts his head again and meets Sylvain’s eyes. “Hey, don’t tell anyone this, but I like to read, you know? I know you do too.” Ashe smiles at these words. “And, I’ve read about foods that can help someone’s performance in the bedroom. If food can do that, why can’t it make people luckier in other ways? Or stronger?”

Ashe’s blush deepens at Sylvain’s crude words, but he nods all the same. “So, you think my cooking can help you? On the battlefield, I mean.” 

“I know it can.” Sylvain gives a grin that, unlike his usual smiles, is not at all disingenuous. “And, I know I’m gonna need you to make me way more of that bear before the next battle. Uh, that is, if you have time.”

“Of course!” Ashe always has time to make something for his classmates. Besides, Sylvain just helped confirm Ashe’s deepest suspicions. “I’ll cook anything you want.”

* * *

Ashe feels as if he cannot cook at all. He takes a deep breath: it is hard to feel the confidence, bravery, and strength he needs to capture in his cooking to help everyone before the battle. If his cooking helped everyone land blows more accurately during the last battle, then he has a duty to cook something before Edelgard attacks. All the same, Ashe feels frozen. He’s not even sure what to cook; the kitchen staff have been busy, preparing food for the additional troops and civilians the professor and Seteth pulled into Garreg Mach’s walls before the Empire’s army blocked off the roads. It seems selfish to take food away from them. 

The fact that Ashe is alone in the kitchens does not help. His classmates are training, writing letters home, or helping the professor and the rest of the monastery staff prepare the monastery’s defenses. Dedue is with Dimitri. No matter how badly Ashe wants to cook with Dedue, no matter how badly Ashe thinks Dedue needs a break from watching the prince, who has turned into a completely different person since Edelgard’s revelation in the holy tombs, Dedue will not leave Dimitri’s side. It is hard to feel brave without his comforting presence at Ashe’s side. 

The kitchen knife feels too heavy in Ashe’s hand. Shouldn’t he also be writing home, or maybe even heading home, to make sure his siblings are safe in Castle Gaspard? Perhaps Ashe should be sleeping; it is late, Ashe has chosen a time to cook when he will not bother the kitchen staff. Besides, who should he cook for? Along with the original members of the Blue Lions and the Golden Deer who remain behind to fight, the professor has convinced a few of the Black Eagles to fight with them as well. The faculty and Knights of Serios will certainly also be on the battlefield; should Ashe make a meal for all of them? 

The knife clatters on the counter and Ashe sinks to the floor. That’s over 30 people. He is alone. What is he thinking, anyway? Nothing he cooks can fix Edelgard’s attack. They are at war and no amount of spices can fix what has been broken. 

* * *

Ashe barely cooks in the five years that follow. In the beginning, he simply has no time; riding back to Gaspard Territory, swearing fealty to House Rowe and then breaking from them when they join the Empire, finally settling on doing what he can to help the Kingdom and the people around him. For that matter, Ashe hardly has time to eat. Or sleep. Or see his siblings, who are safe, but far from enemy lines. Far from Ashe.

On his return to Garreg Mach, Ashe does not cook because the kitchens hold too many memories. This is war. Ashe knows there will be losses, but he never expected… The voice in the back of Ashe’s mind says, if anything, Dedue would want him to cook. Would want him to find solace in eating something indicative of Duscur cuisine. So, one night, nearly a month after Dimitri told everyone of Dedue’s death, Ashe steps foot in the kitchens once more, to prepare the sweet buns Dedue had him try at the ball all those years before. 

The filling will have to be different. Ashe is still not sure how Dedue found red beans at Garreg Mach in the first place and the war has made even more common ingredients rare. But, the pantry has plenty of egg and dairy thanks to the local farmers, and Ashe thinks a custard filling will do just fine. 

When Ashe arrives to bake, late in the night, the fire in the kitchen is burning low: very few kitchen staff are still around. Perfect. The low heat will help keep the custard from breaking and he can always add more logs to the fire when he needs to steam the buns. Dedue never taught him the recipe — one of the many, many things Ashe regrets not asking Dedue — but Ashe thinks he has the idea. 

There aren’t many eggs left, which is fine, considering Ashe does not intend to share the steamed buns. The thought that he does not plan to share hits Ashe with surprise: he always shares what he cooks. What is the point of food if it isn’t shared? But tonight, Ashe wants to do this alone. He needs to do this alone. Needs to tell himself that he can keep the memory of Duscur alive… even if Dedue is not.

For the first few nights after Dimitri told everyone, Ashe cried himself to sleep. He likes to think he would cry if any of his classmates fell in battle, but he cannot lie that his bond with Dedue was special. Or, at least, he felt it was. That is something else Ashe would never get to ask Dedue. Which is fine, because Ashe isn’t sure how Dedue would take him asking. “Am I special to you? You’re special to me.”

The dough is soft in Ashe’s hands. It reminds him of the time he and Dedue baked bread. It was one of their first times cooking together and Ashe had been a little afraid of the other man. But, the way Dedue kneaded the bread in his large hands, as if the bread were something precious, something to take care of, had driven away the last of Ashe’s fears. 

As Ashe carefully ladles the thankfully unsplit custard into each circle of dough, he recalls something he hasn’t in a while; that his soup, prepared so soon after Lonato’s passing, made everyone cry. Ever so carefully, he tries to place his warmest, happiest memories of Dedue into each bun as he rolls them into balls and places them over hot water to steam. Ashe finds that, even once the buns are cooking and he is putting the kettle on to prepare tea, he can’t stop thinking about happy memories with Dedue. The exhilaration of fighting next to Dedue on the battlefield; the quiet peace of gardening together. 

The warmth he felt the first time he saw Dedue smile. 

By the time the buns are finished and Ashe is biting into their soft sweetness, he is so caught up in reminiscing about moments with Dedue that he is not sure if it is the magic of the food that makes him feel so happy, or the memories themselves.

* * *

The next time Ashe goes to make steamed buns, he feels his hands shake for entirely different reasons.

Dedue is at his side — Dedue is at his side! Alive and real and older and more scarred but still as kind and warm as ever. 

Besides, goodness, maybe Ashe likes the scars a little bit. He must, because each time Dedue gets a little too close in the kitchen, Ashe’s stomach twists. He feels a bit like his stomach is full of scalding hot tea, if tea made you want to spin around and clap your hands together and explode, all at the same time. 

Dedue is saying something, but Ashe is barely listening. He is turning, turning the dough around in his hands, kneading it, running his hands through it the way he cannot run his hands through Dedue’s hair, against Dedue’s skin. Ashe works, thoughts slipping beyond the dough into a space he dare not name, until Dedue places one large palm over Ashe’s hands. 

“You will overwork the dough,” Dedue says simply. He withdraws his hand. 

Ashe blushes. “I’m sorry.” Dedue is quiet. Ashe hands him the dough. “Do we need to start over?” 

Dedue shakes his head before gently rolling the dough flat and removing the custard pan from where it rests above the fire. Once again, they were unable to find red beans. Ashe vows to someday make the buns for Dedue the way they were meant to be made, even if it means he has to travel to all corners of Fódlan, picking beans one at a time. Dedue does not even like these buns that much; maybe Ashe should find a new filling, just for Dedue. 

Annette and Lysithea arrive before the buns are finished steaming. They chat amicably with Dedue, but it is clear they are here for sweets. Not that Ashe can focus on their conversation, or on their motives. Not when the firelight is dancing so freely in Dedue’s eyes. Cooking together gives Ashe an excuse to be close to Dedue, to study his face, his hands, the place where his neck dips into his shirt. As soon as the buns are done, Dedue will likely leave the kitchen to pass their dessert out to their friends. The fire will be out in the hearth even as the fire in Ashe’s stomach continues to burn.

Annette and Lysithea devour their buns before they are even cool. Ashe watches the steam pour out with each bite. When he cooks with Dedue, he can convince himself that he stands so near to the other man because they have so little space in the kitchen. Annette, always clumsy, has gotten custard on her cheek. Dedue is bending over the fire now, putting more raw, doughy buns into the pot. How Ashe longs to place his hand on that muscular back. Lysithea moves her hand against Annette’s face, wiping away the custard.

Annette’s face glows red in the firelight and, before Ashe can turn his face away, he sees her bring her lips to Lysithea’s cheek. Ashe looks down, but he hears the two women giggle behind him, between more bites of the dessert. 

Dedue stands. Annette and Lysithea do as well.

“Thank you for the treat,” Annette says, moving perhaps too hastily for the door. Lysithea expresses her thanks too, following her out. 

“The batch Dedue put on to cook will only take a few minutes, if you want to wait for more.” Ashe offers. The second he does he regrets it. Lysithea shakes her head and for the first time realizes the meaning behind her actions. She blushes a deep shade of crimson and hurries out the door along with Annette.

The kitchen is silent. The heat that had filled the room seconds before dissipates into the air, leaving behind only the rich scent of custard. If Dedue feels the charge leave the kitchen, he does not say anything. 

Ashe stares glassy-eyed at the fire until Dedue’s movement to the pot of buns shakes him from his daydreams. Ashe watches as Dedue places each bun on a platter. The sticky-sweet scent of custard continues to fill the room until the air itself feels thicker. Words die in Ashe’s throat. 

He takes a bun and bites into it, hoping to unstick the words. When the soft dough melts in his mouth, he finds all he wishes is that Dedue enjoyed sweets, so that he and Dedue could share the experience of eating something they made together. Perhaps he should now propose they make soup, or steak, or sandwiches, so that they may spend each second in the kitchen together and never have to leave. 

Dedue finishes arranging the buns. As Ashe opens his mouth to take another bite, Dedue opens his mouth to say something. The heat in Ashe’s stomach grows as Dedue leans closer to him. Is it possible Dedue has found the words to say to Ashe what Ashe has been trying to say to Dedue? 

The heat, the sweetness, in the room grows until a burst of air hits Ashe’s face as Sylvain enters the room. Dedue springs away from Ashe.

“Am I interrupting?” Sylvain raises one eyebrow at Ashe. Sylvain’s words mean nothing; Ashe is fairly certain Sylvain said the same thing when he stumbled into Ashe and the professor’s tea party the other day, and everyone knows the professor and Dimitri have only grown closer as the prince has recovered.

Still, Ashe shakes his head. He does not look at Dedue, does not want to see his expression.

Sylvain turns his attention from Ashe to the buns. “I was wondering if I could have a few of those. I’m trying to impress someone who’s into sweets.”

Finally, Ashe has something to say. “Take all you want. We were going to pass these out to everyone anyway.”

“Cool,” Sylvain picks up a few buns, “Don’t worry. I won’t try to pass these off as my own. I just want whatever you put in them that had _Lysithea_ showing an emotion other than disgust.”

Ashe now feels firmly rooted in the present. “What do you mean?”

“I saw her and Annette holding hands, which for them is practically the same as making out on the lawn. Annette said they just came from the kitchens. I figured you cooked up something that helped with, you know, romance issues.”

Ashe continues to avoid looking at Dedue. “Well, I certainly didn’t intend to do that. But, um, like I said, please take as much as you want.”

Sylvain picks up a few more buns before stepping back. “Thanks again, guys. I’ll let you know how it goes!” With a cheery wave, Sylvain leaves the room. Next to him, Ashe feels Dedue shift.

“Will you give the rest of the buns to our classmates?”

Ashe nods, gaze still fixed into the distance. “Want to come with me?”

Dedue shakes his head. He seems stiff.

“Is everything okay?”

Dedue says nothing, pressing his mouth into a firm line. It is clear that everything is not okay. 

“Want to talk about it?” Ashe offers. The sweet smell in the kitchen is gone now, its last traces leaving with Sylvain. The fire is dying and Ashe suddenly feels cold. 

For a long moment, it seems Dedue will say nothing, will leave Ashe’s offer untouched. But then, he speaks. “I do not think war is the best time to begin a courtship.”

The fire goes out. The chill settles deeper in Ashe’s bones. “I think Annette, Lysithea, and Sylvain are just having fun.”

Dedue shakes his head, before turning to stare at the hearth. His face is unreadable. “I hope everyone enjoys the rest of the sweets.” Dedue exhales, slowly. “Goodnight, Ashe.”

Ashe tries to keep his face as blank as Dedue’s, but is sure he fails at it. Unable to speak, he nods at Dedue, before picking up the plate and leaving the cold, cold kitchen.

The air outside is hardly warmer than the air in the kitchen. Or, perhaps it is and Ashe cannot feel it. The moonlight glimmers so sweetly off of the water in the pond, but to Ashe the light almost seems blinding. Mercedes is at the bottom of the stairs, chatting with Sylvain. Ashe fails to register what it means that they are sharing a steamed bun. When Mercedes calls him over, he does not see Sylvain’s _look._

“Oh, Ashe, thank you for this treat. You are just as sweet as these buns.” Even Mercedes’ complement does not make Ashe smile. Mercedes frowns, motioning for Ashe to sit down. But, as Ashe climbs down the last few stairs, he catches a glimpse of Sylvain’s face. Ashe registers everything. The buns. Sylvain’s plea to have some to impress a girl who liked sweets. The proximity of his two friends on this moonlit night.

Although talking to Mercedes about his problems sounds more comforting than the warmest mug of tea the professor has even served him, Ashe shakes his head and walks to his room.

It would not be right to stand in the way of someone else’s love, even if his is all but lost. 

Ashe prepares for bed, hoping sleep will come swiftly but knowing it will evade him for hours as he plays over and over the scene of Dedue’s, in every way but words, rejection. He feels something odd knot in his stomach: jealousy. A rare emotion for Ashe, who wishes nothing more than for everyone to have all the good things in the world. Still, it hurts to see everyone but him cuddling up with someone. 

Ashe is not owed Dedue’s love. But, as Ashe lies in his bed, staring at the wall between his room and Dedue’s, he wishes, just once, that Dedue could feel everything in Ashe’s heart as they cooked together. 

* * *

Bitter. The olive oil on Ashe’s tongue tastes bitter. Ashe is not a bitter person. Or rather, Ashe is bitter about the way the war drags on, the way Edelgard forces them to fight when all Dimitri and Claude want to do is talk, the secrets the church is so obviously keeping. Ashe is not bitter about Dedue’s rejection. 

The olive oil is likely rancid, but what can Ashe do about it. The supply routes are more or less cutoff. Ashe tastes some of it on the pasta, carefully made from the scraps of egg and flour the kitchen could spare him. Even the pasta does not cover the unpleasant taste.

Butter. Butter should work instead. Ashe wants to coat the pasta, to make a light meal for a few friends before they march for Derdriu. Garland Moon brings with it the rainy season and the humidity is oppressive. Boiling the pasta generated enough heat to turn the kitchen from sweltering to boiling, so Ashe cuts the cabbage, onion, and carrot into matchsticks, with the intent of leaving them raw in the pasta salad. 

It is not raining yet; Ashe sees Annette and Lysithea outside, sharing a single copy of a book. Still, the wind is rising and, Ashe feels, if Annette and Lysithea do not get inside soon, they will get drenched when the rains do come. 

Ashe is glad his friends are happy. Ashe _wants_ everyone to be happy, but lately he is keenly aware of the ways in which that happiness excludes him. Outside the window, Annette rests her head on Lysithea’s shoulders. 

There is very little butter left in the larder. Ashe places it on the counter. The light taste of olive oil will be missed in this dish, but Ashe can make up for it with spices and maybe a hint of vinegar thrown in just before serving. Sylvain is, at least, subtle about his recent romantic successes, but Ashe wakes early enough to see him leaving Mercedes’ room most mornings. 

Despite the heat, Ashe preps a cup of mint tea while the pasta chills. The tea is bitter too. The mint, which usually leaves his mouth feeling cool, now tastes sour. Honey might fix it. The bees were busy under the Harpstring Moon. Ashe’s mind has been busy too, with scenes of Dedue’s large hands, soft lips, and the lines low, low on Dedue’s stomach that Ashe cannot help but notice when Dedue is taking off his armor.

At this very moment, adding spoonful after spoonful of honey to his tea, Ashe wishes he could get rid of the heat he feels in his stomach, his chest, and other, less comfortable places, when he passes Dedue. Despite all the time Ashe took while sweetening it, the tea is still too hot. He should ask the professor if he could transfer rooms. It is hard not to think about Dedue when Dedue sleeps barely ten feet from Ashe.

It has been too hot to wear much to bed lately. Ashe is thankful no one else is in the kitchen when he realizes this, turning a brighter red than the cherry tomatoes on the counter. Because if he has had to strip in the evenings, that means Dedue, sleeping so nearby, must also be unclothed.

The air feels heavy; Ashe has yet to train today, but he is sweating as if he had. Even coated with butter, something still tastes wrong about the pasta salad. The heat of the air brings the dish to a less-than-appetizing room temperature. 

Ingrid is still happy to try some. She takes a bite, seemingly oblivious to any foul taste. After eating in silence for a few moments, Ingrid turns to Ashe.

“I’m glad Dimitri is back to his old self. But,” Ingrid pauses, leaving Ashe hanging as she takes another bite, “what do you really think of him and the professor together? Well, whatever they have.” 

Ashe is shocked: Ingrid still plans to serve as Dimitri’s knight. They should not be talking about his relationships. Besides, other than spending a lot of time whispering together, it is not as if Dimitri has announced any formal relations with their beloved professor. 

“I-I’m not sure,” Ashe stammers out.

Ingrid chews thoughtfully. “I think I’m done with men, you know? I want to focus on being a knight for a while.” Ingrid is never shy with her words, but Ashe has never known her to be so bold.

Thankfully, Ashe is saved from having to respond to either statement by the heavy curtain of rain that begins to fall outside. The loud plops and drips of the water as it hits the kitchen roof is in dissonance to the squeals Annette makes as she runs into the room. 

Annette is drenched from the downpour and Ashe hands her one of the kitchen towels. Lysithea steps in the room as well. She and the book she is holding are dry. Ingrid offers them both a plate of the pasta salad, which Annette accepts happily. The sweets-loving Lysithea only picks at the contents of her plate.

Ashe cannot see the pond from the dining hall door for the heavy curtain of rain. Despite the inches of water already pooling at the door frame, the oppressive atmosphere has yet to break. 

Annette makes a noise of approval as soon as she takes her first bite. “This is amazing, Ashe! So, so, scrummy-yummy! I love it.”

Lysithea scoffs as she swallows her small bite of mostly cabbage. “Is there anything you don’t love?” 

Annette’s face falls. “What do you mean by that?” She suddenly sounds small, unlike herself. Ingrid continues eating. Ashe wonders if he and Ingrid should leave the room.

Without looking at her face, Ashe can see the scowl form on Lysithea’s lips. “You love sitting outside, even though the wind made it impossible to read. You love the rain, despite the fact that I told you the library book would be ruined if we got it wet.” Annette’s lower lip wobbles, but Lysithea continues. “Have you ever noticed how a lot of the things you _love_ get the people around you into trouble?” Lysithea pushes her plate away, “I don’t even like pasta salad.” She stands and walks, without looking back, into the monastery’s entrance hall.

Annette starts crying and loudly blows her nose on a napkin. Ingrid jumps into older sister mode, stroking Annette’s hair, trying her best despite being hardly the most comforting person at the monastery. 

Ashe goes over to Annette too, placing what he hopes is a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Ingrid meets Ashe’s eyes over Annette’s head and offers him a shrug as if to say _see, this is why relationships are more trouble than they’re worth._

“It’s okay,” Ashe says, with more conviction than he feels as Annette cries into his stomach. “Sometimes people fight.”

“Yeah, but,” Annette hiccups, “we haven’t fought at all until right now. I didn’t even know she felt that way.”

As if moving of their own accord, Ashe’s eyes come to rest on the pasta salad on the table. He remembers all the thoughts he had, the frustrations and jealousy he felt at being rejected, despite his best intentions to shove such thoughts away. The way Ingrid suddenly felt so sure she was done with men. 

Quickly, Ashe springs into action, taking the plate away from Ingrid, then Annette. Thankfully, neither seem to notice. Ashe is about to take the rest of the pasta and dump it out when lightning splits the sky and a loud roll of thunder shakes the dining hall. Ashe is frozen for a second, staring out into the grey darkness of the day, when three shadows move into the room. Dimitri is flanked by Sylvain and the ever-present, ever-imposing, figure of Dedue.

“Ooh, having a snack without us?” Sylvain asks, before catching sight of Annette and changing his tone. “Everything, uh, okay in here?” Annette sniffs one more time and Ingrid stands. 

“Why don’t we go back to your dorm now, before the storm gets worse?” Ingrid offers. Annette nods. Everyone watches them leave. 

Dimitri, tactfully, changes topics. “Can we help you tidy up, Ashe?” 

Ashe shakes his head. “It’s okay. I’ve got this.” Only, he is trying to carry the serving bowl, utensils, and three plates. Dedue carefully takes the bowl from Ashe’s hands. Ashe would be grateful, but his heart is in his stomach.

They make their way to the kitchens. Dedue watches without comment as Ashe scrapes the rest of the pasta into the pit they use for waste. When more thunder shakes the building and Ashe jumps, Dedue reaches out a hand to steady the bowl. His thumb brushes Ashe’s fingers, but Dedue doesn’t pull back. Ashe does. He sits the now-empty bowl on the counter. He should say something. Dedue helped him with the bowls. 

“I think the olive oil is rancid. I’m not sure if I should throw it out, or wait for one of the cooks to.”

Dedue grabs the bottle from the shelf to try it himself. He takes a spoon and to pour the oil into, first looking at the color and smelling it, and finally, tasting the oil. The process is agonizingly slow. Ashe sort of wants to run into the rain, leaving the kitchens never to return.

After a few moments, Dedue frowns. “It does not taste rancid to me.”

Of course. The issue was just, well, honestly, the issue is just that Ashe is bad at cooking. That Ashe tastes things wrong. That Ashe felt hurt and couldn’t control his emotions, so he made Annette and Ingrid and Lysithea hurt as well.

“Thank you for checking.” From the other room, Dimitri and Sylvain call out for Dedue. Dedue leaves, without so much as inviting Ashe to join. Dedue is usually so considerate. But, then again, Ashe is usually a good cook. Or he thought he was.

They march for Derdriu at dawn, stepping through mud, moving slowly through the hot, unabating rain. Ashe will not see the kitchen for weeks and the thought makes him glad. 

* * *

Even upon returning to the monastery, it is not difficult to avoid the kitchen. Ashe is busy, taking care of bandits on the road and spending hour after hour helping the professor and Dimitri plan their next steps. Despite the fact that no one wants to jinx anything by saying the war is almost at its end, the long, hot days of Blue Sea Moon, full of endless sunshine, make it impossible to feel anything but hope. Even if Ashe wants to cook, he does not have the time.

And Ashe definitely does not want to cook. He avoids Annette and Lysithea and cannot escape the feeling that he caused their argument. It is impossible to avoid the dining hall, however. Ashe sits with Ingrid most days and steers their conversation to books. He often misses dinner entirely, if the patrol or scouting mission goes late, making up for it with hastily grabbed bread and cheese.

The moon is full the last night a scouting mission causes Ashe to miss supper. He is tired, covered in dust and, what he hopes is not, but most certainly is, monster blood. Gilbert joined Ashe on what was supposed to be a routine scouting trip. They hadn’t anticipated the monsters. 

The adrenaline of battle has long worn off and Ashe feels nothing but hunger. As soon as he enters the dining hall and catches a glimpse of Dedue’s hard-to-miss frame, he feels his heart speed up. After a month of trying not to think about Dedue, it is ever-so-hard for Ashe to let those feelings sleep, particularly when Dedue is standing in the kitchens, wearing an apron, carefully tasting, then salting, then tasting again, a pot of stew. As soon as he sees Ashe, his usually unreadable face takes on an expression of concern. 

“You’re quite late getting back.”

“The scouting mission didn’t go well. I was so busy, I didn’t even have time to eat,” Ashe admits.

Dedue nods. “I thought that might be the case. Gilbert was exhausted too. Glad you made it. I saved some food for you.”

Ashe’s heart squeezes when he sees the care with which Dedue performs the simple task of ladling him out a bowl of stew. 

The soup is perfect, of course. Duscur inspired. Ashe wonders what it is like, Duscur. He wonders if Dedue is the last person to cook in this style. There are others from Duscur, of course, but can they cook the way Dedue does? Are they forced, as Dedue felt he was, to stop cooking, to assimilate, to forget their culture in the name of survival? 

Ashe avoids these topics, keeping things light. He does not want to make Dedue sad. Instead, he praises Dedue’s soup and the conversation turns to cooking.

“I learned to cook from watching my mother,” Dedue says. 

Ashe closes his eyes, in the next mouthful of soup, he sees her; kind, patient, showing Dedue the perfect proportion of spices she uses to make her own special Duscur blend. Their neighbor next door adds too much paprika to her mix, Dedue’s mom chides. Dedue and his sister laugh. Ashe would do anything to hear Dedue laugh like that now.

Only, he doesn’t say that. Instead, Ashe talks of his father and his kitchen. Ashe tries to conjure up images of his dad with Dedue’s soup, but it is impossible. Dedue put his own memories into the meal, not Ashe’s. Ashe sees them again, the next time he bites into a mix of beans and sweet potatoes. Dedue’s mother deboning a fish, putting it on to grill the same way Dedue taught Ashe to those many years ago. She is laughing, again.

In most of Dedue’s memories of his mother, she is laughing. 

You have your mother’s laugh, Ashe wants to say. 

Instead, he tells Dedue that he knows Dedue put his memories of his mother and sister into the meal. 

He tells Dedue he wishes his parents, all of his parents, and brother were near him too. Not in the clouds with the Goddess, but here, in the dining room with them.

“They are, as long as you think of them,” Dedue replies.

And, somewhere, Lonato is smiling. 

Ashe hardly notices when the first tear falls into the soup. He takes another bite and this time, feels not memories, but something new, something real. Something that warms his stomach and brings a heat to his cheeks. Dedue places a hand on Ashe’s back. 

“Careful… or you will over salt it.” Dedue’s voice sounds thick with emotions of his own. 

Ashe wipes his eyes; he sees Dedue do the same. 

He eats in silence for a while, until he has eaten enough soup to be sure of Dedue’s feelings. 

“Why did you tell me you weren’t ready for a relationship?” Ashe feels he can be bold now.

Next to him, Dedue sighs. He is very expressive tonight.

“I am not,” Dedue replies carefully. Ashe stiffens, but Dedue’s hand on his back remains. “But that does not change how I feel… about you. I understand if you cannot wait…”

To give himself time to collect his thoughts before he responds, Ashe takes another bite. Bad idea, considering the bite contains a bit of hot pepper. As Ashe sinks his teeth into the pepper’s fleshy skin, he _feels_ some of the equally spicy thoughts Dedue has had about Ashe, in the privacy of his room.

“Oh.” Is all Ashe says, grabbing a roll to quell the fire.

Once his mouth cools down — Ashe feels there is no use waiting for his thoughts to cool down — Ashe responds.

“Dedue, I would wait for you for a hundred years. Only,” Ashe adds with a nervous chuckle, “please don’t make me wait that long.”

Dedue laughs, deep, just like his mother.

And across the courtyard near the commoner dorms, Lysithea knocks on Annette’s door, careful not to drop the stack of books she is holding. 

“Would you like to read these with me?”

* * *

It is two hours before the opening of his inn and Ashe’s sweet buns, the dessert for the opening day celebration, need to be completely redone. The war is over; Ashe has not seen Dedue for months, but, then again, he has been busy trying to open an inn. Dedue has been busy serving Dimitri. 

It was a silly mistake that led to the buns getting overcooked. Ashe had been salting the Duscur bear steaks for later when he remembered Dedue would be here today. Dedue would try his food, sit at his table. 

Dedue — if the rumors Gilbert told him, between tears of joy at Annette and Lysithea’s small wedding at Lysithea’s parents’ estate, were true — who is planning to leave Dimitri’s service. 

“What does he plan to do next?” Ashe had asked Gilbert, both full of hope that this meant Dedue might be ready to try a relationship and a little frustrated that Dedue hadn’t wanted to run this development by Ashe first.

“He didn’t say —”

“Dad! Ashe! We’re cutting the cake.” Annette yelled, adjusting the crown of white flowers on her head, and the conversation had ended. 

Then Ashe moved to shelling peas and forgot about the buns entirely, until he went to place water over the fire and realized a pan was already there.

There is nothing to do but throw the buns into the garbage. What a waste. They don’t take particularly long to steam, but Ashe used all the dough for the last batch and will need to make more. Not a difficult job, but considering he still has green beans to blanche, steaks to sear, rolls to bake, and fish to grill, he hardly feels up to the task. His siblings are getting the inn ready for the guests. They have their work cut out for them, arranging flowers and hanging garlands. 

Well, Ashe thinks, nothing to do but roll up his sleeves and get to work. He will cut it close on time, but, if he gets the beer and wine out soon enough, his guests may not notice the absence of food. 

Ashe is not sure who all is coming. Ingrid said she would be able to make it. Dimitri, off in the capital and the professor down at the monastery are too busy, but sent promises to visit at a later time. Felix acted as if visiting Ashe would be a chore, but Ashe knows the swordsman will be here all the same. Annette and Lysithea are coming, as are Sylvain and Mercedes, despite the pair already expecting their first child. Many of his friends from other houses, who joined the Blue Lions for admiration of the professor, are making the trip as well.

Dedue said, in his letter, which was far more brief than Ashe would have wished, he may be arriving late.

Which is why, when Ashe hears a knock on the front door of the inn, he is taken aback when he opens the door to reveal Dedue. 

“I arrived earlier than expected,” Dedue offers. Ashe starts to frown, but stops when he see the smile that lights up Dedue’s face. “It is good to see you.”

Even Dedue’s smile cannot quell the nervous feeling in Ashe’s stomach: he really should get back to the kitchen.

“It is great to see you too, Dedue. Um, I’m still preparing the meal. Do you mind sitting in the dining area while I finish?”

Dedue shakes his head. “I do not mind. Although, I can help you cook. Not that you need my help, but I would like to offer it.”

Ashe nods slowly and Dedue follows him into the kitchen. 

“Can you grill the fish?” Ashe asks, getting back to work on the bun dough.

Dedue gets to work, moving around Ashe’s kitchen with ease, finding things in drawers that Ashe often cannot find himself.

The work goes smoothly with two people and Ashe and Dedue find themselves done, buns steaming in a pot over the fire, before the other guests are even seated. Ashe runs out to greet everyone as they arrive, helps them with their coats, and gives his siblings a few bottles of wine to pour, before hurrying back into the kitchen to see Dedue placing the last of the small fish skewers artfully on a platter for the appetizer. When he finishes arranging the fish, Dedue hands the plate to Ashe’s brother, and Ashe watches as the young man scurries off to serve their guests. 

Ashe and Dedue are now alone in the kitchen. Ashe knows he should use this time to quickly clean his hands and remove his apron before going out to join his guests, but there is something he needs to know first.

“Dedue.” Ashe faces the other man. 

“Ashe...” Dedue says in response, so softly Ashe feels he might melt. But, now isn’t the time for that.

“We need to talk.” Dedue nods in response and sits on a stool, motioning for Ashe to do the same. “During the war, we were close, um, friends. But, there were times when… well,” Ashe looks at the floor, unable to face Dedue, “There were times when you acted like you wanted to be more than friends, and times when you avoided me. You said you weren’t ready for a relationship, and I understand that—” Ashe looks up, surveying Dedue’s face, and notes with surprise that Dedue looks sad “— but you never discussed any of this with me. You left me to wonder at your motives. And now, you’re here. I heard you left Dimitri’s service, but you never discussed that with me either. You never—” Ashe breaks off, looking down again, “— I’m not sure what you want.”

Dedue’s eyes are also downcast. “I hurt you.”

“You did.” Ashe’s voice comes out sharper than intended. “You never communicated what you wanted.”

“Ashe…” Dedue sounds remorseful, “I thought it would be best for you if you did not court someone like me. I see now I was wrong.”

“Yes,” Ashe lets out a nervous laugh, “I thought I made it clear when we first met: anyone who would judge someone for where they are from is not someone I respect.”

“I would like to… start again.” Dedue meets Ashe’s eyes. “I did leave Dimitri’s service. Not only for you, for myself too. I thought I might…” here, Dedue _blushes,_ of all things! “sell flowers. I can live in Fhirdiad or, if you will permit it, live in Gaspard territory.” Near you, Dedue finishes with his eyes.

Ashe feels himself color too. “Dedue, of course you can live in Gaspard territory. I hope you live very close by.”

A ghost of a smile appears on Dedue’s face. “After I have earned your faith, I would like to court you.”

Ashe shakes his head. “Dedue, I’ve waited for you long enough. There’s no need to court me. Just… talk to me, about your feelings and we can take things day by day. Or even,” Ashe begins, feeling his heart speed up, “night by night?” 

Both Dedue and Ashe are looking in other directions now, unable to meet each other’s eyes. “I did eat some of the hot peppers in your stew,” Ashe says, knowingly. Dedue looks confused.

"I can explain later.” Finally, Ashe laughs. “I guess we both have a lot to tell each other.”

Suddenly, Dedue stands. Ashe starts. “What—” realization dawns on him when he sees Dedue go to the fire and take the steamed buns off. He tests one for doneness, and begins to place them all on a platter.

Ashe smiles. “Thanks, Dedue. I almost forgot those again.” Dedue places the last bun on the plate and moves closer to Ashe. “I’ll be glad to have you around the inn.” Shyly, he takes Dedue’s hand in his. 

Dedue gazes down at Ashe. “I promise to make everything up to you. In any way you would like.” 

A dozen highly inappropriate thoughts come to Ashe’s mind. However, as he surveys the kitchen, now a mess after a day of cooking, something a little more appropriate for a budding relationship pops into his head. 

“Why don’t you wash all my dishes for a year?” Ashe asks, only slightly teasing.

Dedue squeezes Ashe’s hand. “I will wash all your dishes for a hundred years, if that is what it takes to apologize for my behavior.”

“And always tell me how you feel and what you need.”

“I will,” Dedue replies solemnly. “And you must as well.”

Outside the kitchen, Ashe hears their friends’ voices, raised in conversation and laughter.

“We should get out to the party soon.” Ashe notes, quietly. Dedue nods. “Taste a bun to make sure they’re ready, and then head out?” Dedue moves to grab a bun, but Ashe stops him, “Please, try the one with the yellow dough. It’s filled with fish and turnips. I know you prefer that over red beans.” 

Dedue raises the bun to his lips and, ever so carefully for such a large man, takes a bite. Ashe watches as Dedue closes his eyes and savors the taste. A smile forms on his lips. Once he finishes, he fixes Ashe with an intense, but unreadable look.

“Are the buns ready?” Ashe asks, Dedue’s gaze is making him nervous.

“Yes. But, before we serve them, you must be honest with me about what you are feeling.”

“I-I’m not sure what you mean?” Ashe offers. 

“For instance,” Dedue takes a step closer, “do you want me to kiss you now?”

Ashe cannot get the words out, but he does stand and nod his consent. Dedue closes the gap between them and places on hand, covered in flour and spices, on the side of Ashe’s face. Ashe tilts his head up and Dedue ever so softly places his lips against Ashe’s. Ashe can taste the rest of the bun; savory and a little salty and mostly full of all the love Ashe has in his heart for Dedue. They break apart and Ashe makes to pick up the last of the food. His heart is still pounding. 

Ashe lifts one platter and Dedue takes the other. Dedue opens the door between the kitchen and the main room of the inn and, side by side, Ashe and Dedue walk to the table filled with food and surrounded by friends.

Ashe places the platter down and goes to sit. Before he can, Dedue pulls him in for a kiss. They break apart to the sound of whistles, cheers, and a long sigh from Felix.

“Sorry, everyone,” Ashe says with a chuckle, before taking his seat. Dedue sits next to him and Ashe feels the warmth of Dedue’s leg, resting near his. “Let’s eat.”


End file.
